


We'll Remember the Day

by stardropdream



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Post-Episode: s05e13 The Diamond of the Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 20:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4320147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You are you in all ways that matter," Merlin says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We'll Remember the Day

**Author's Note:**

> So I haven't written Merlin fic in a while. Have a one-shot. It was originally part of a larger story that I ultimately scrapped, so I made it into a little mini-fic. Something simple, something quiet. Just them readjusting to being in each other's lives again - I've always liked the concept that it wasn't just Merlin who was waiting, that Arthur did his own form of waiting in Avalon, although far more nebulous than Merlin's life.

It is an odd thing to stumble out of the lake, waterlogged and shaking from the force of breathing again. He is shocked soon after, of course, by the force of Merlin colliding into him – still just as he remembers, if not for the sadness clouding up his eyes – the force of Merlin reaching up, grasping his face, and kissing him as if breathing like back into him himself. 

He doesn’t have much room to complain, or to question, because it has been years, centuries, and there is the first time in so long that he’s been _alive_ and not heartbroken. When they part, when Merlin stares at him with bright eyes, unshed tears dimming his smile, he tells Arthur, “I have been waiting for you for a _very_ long time.”

The world around them is crashing back down again. The sky is red and angry, the world so full of magic that even Arthur can feel it now, still wrapped up in the dredges of Avalon’s roots. But that matters little, that matters so very little when he can feel and see Merlin there with him. 

And then, in his effort to be closer to Merlin still, in Merlin’s effort to feel him, to know him, to understand that he is _back_ again – Merlin accidentally headbutts him, hard, in the chin. The curse he lets out is fluid and loud, and Merlin can’t apologize around the force of his laughter – the first time, he’ll tell Arthur later, he’s laughed in years. 

 

-

 

Arthur thinks that, really, considering how the world has come and gone and changed in the time he’s been asleep, that Merlin would not be quite so clumsy. He remembers him before, of course he does – like is was only yesterday that he saw him tripping all over himself, dropping everything, and the like – but he also remembers him lying, remembers him deceiving. He doesn’t blame him for it, no, of course he doesn’t – but he’d come to expect that Merlin isn’t, inherently, clumsy. 

And perhaps Merlin isn’t clumsy. He’s _careless_. Thousands of years of life and immortality will do that to a person, Arthur supposes, although he has never asked for a point of clarification on that. There are more important things to do, like trying to keep the world from collapsing into itself under the surge of renewed magic – the reason for Arthur’s awakening – and trying to understand the strange foreign words everyone around him, Merlin included, speaks, as if the language he knows and yet inherently different. 

But Merlin is careless to a degree that, frankly, astonishes Arthur. He does not lack grace when he is paying proper attention to his motions. When he’s focused in calming down the magic, in taming the strange, magical creatures that form outside the lines between their world and the next, he moves smoothly as any warrior – aware of each movement, each flick of his wrist, each cast of spell canting across his tongue. There is nothing careless about him when it comes to protect Arthur, to casting him in shadows, to casting him beneath a shield heavy with the smell of magic. But the moment he is distracted, he is unconscious in his movements, as haphazard as a child, or the fool he once pretended to be. 

Twice in the first week of being in this new world, Merlin walks into Arthur’s back, not aware that he’s stopped. In the first two days alone, he bumps into the same doorjamb possibly more than five times, saved by a higher number only because Arthur begins lurking in the doorway to steer Merlin properly should he wander anywhere near Arthur. Which, really, is all the time. Merlin sticks near him, perhaps understandably, but it has lead to more than three occasions where Merlin steps down heavy on his toes, bumps into his shoulders and jostles him, and on one particularly ridiculous occasion, gets wrapped up in Arthur’s tunic and topples them both over in his attempt to get free. 

It’s not that Merlin means to do it – he doesn’t. The fifth time such an incident occurs, Arthur bristles up and says, “Would you just be more careful, you idiot? You’ll get hurt.”

Merlin, blasé and not looking nearly as apologetic as Arthur thinks he perhaps should, simply says, “I stopped thinking about it a few centuries ago. I don’t bruise anymore.” 

Such a statement really shouldn’t strike Arthur dumb – it isn’t as if he wasn’t somehow aware of the centuries floating by, in that nebulous distant web that is Avalon – and yet Merlin’s lackadaisical offering of large passing years is enough to always strike Arthur down into some kind of low-level guilt he prefers to ignore whenever possible. He’s waited so long. He’s waited so long for Arthur. 

Careless with his motions, with his words, with his _magic_ – Arthur has lost track of the number of times he’s watched Merlin fling a fireball or left the teakettle floating mid-air as they leave to battle out the next monster of the week. Arthur should feel infuriated with the recklessness, still even after all this time unsure how to work around the image of _magic_ and _Merlin_ into one cohesive image, although after centuries of his own power, Merlin is cavalier about his magic use. He once magicked Arthur’s mouth shut just so he’d stop speaking. 

“Try to keep up, dollophead,” Merlin says, belying the fear he sees in Merlin’s eyes when an attack comes too close to him. The shields Merlin summons around Arthur would block even the sun, and, most usually, blocks Arthur’s attacks from breeching, as well. He stands there in a mute silence most times, frustrated, his hands itching for attacking – and Merlin dispelling the battle before it can ever truly manifest. 

He is magnificent in a fight, that Arthur can admit to himself. And in the wake of battle, he’ll always smile up at Arthur as if he is not a great fool in his arms. 

 

-

 

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” Merlin asks, jostling Arthur from his thoughts. He’s splayed out in his bed, Merlin draped across him – unwilling to be separate from him even in sleep – and he turns his head to look at him, frowning. Merlin’s eyes glow that early color in the dark, not quite blue and not quite gold. 

He feels the dredges of Avalon tickling at his feet, curled around his ankles as if preparing to bodily drag him back. He only ever sees Avalon when he sleeps now, a distant island full of vines and trees, each one dying out over the years as magic flees. It isn’t something he can remark upon truly, something even now he doesn’t fully understand, only knows as a concept deep down into his bones, tired and raw. The water there never moved and yet was always flowing. Time was much the same way. 

“Can’t,” Arthur offers in a grunt and feels Merlin shift against him, curl up, look at him. 

“You’re tired,” Merlin insists, and Arthur shrugs. It is truth enough and there is little point in denying it, or offering his opinion on the matter. Merlin’s fingers touch at his shoulders, the tips warm, magic-warmed, the after-effects of fire magic still burning in his veins even hours after the spell is dissipated. 

“I can’t.” 

There is no point in lying to Merlin. Merlin is his constant shadow now, always has been – he knows Arthur inside and out, perfectly, even after all these years. He can hide nothing from him – and does not wish to, if he is honest. 

“Arthur.” 

Merlin smiles at him – that smile that Arthur finds himself thinking of when they are in the heat of battle, that smile he thinks of even after it is long gone. The day always seems quieter without it, emptier – he is aware, at any moment, when the last time he sees this smile is. It has been thousands of years since he saw the last one. 

“You’re being ridiculous,” Merlin offers and Arthur shuts his eyes, heaves in a deep breath, tries to let himself relax enough to sleep.

He shakes his head. “I’ve slept too long.” 

“I never thought I’d see the day where you refuse to sleep more,” Merlin says, lifts his hand, and accidentally smacks it against Arthur’s chin in his pursuit to get to his hair, to pet through it. He doesn’t apologize for the hit and Arthur makes no sound of protest against it. He leans into the touch. 

“It’s too much like before,” Arthur offers, hates the moments where his voice jags with vulnerability and knows Merlin will understand. 

Merlin knows all things about Arthur. Avalon, though, is the one thing Merlin can never understand, can never dissect it from Arthur’s lips – not for Arthur’s want of trying, but the pure foreignness of the other side of magic. It is a thing too foreign even for the most powerful sorcerer to ever walk the earth. 

The past lurks in sleep. Avalon, its talons dragged into his back, tethering him even now. Camelot, long gone from this world and distant to him – the sights and smells of the air in summer. The people he once knew – Guinevere, his knights, his people. They are distant memories to the world and yet phantoms he saw only a short time ago, separated by an endless sleep. 

“I don’t—” Arthur begins, and then stops. He shuts his mouth back against the echoes of distant days. His mind sharpens in and then softens, jumping back to thoughts of the softness of Guinevere’s hands upon his cheeks, gentle and sweet but not without their calluses – a woman who worked hard in her life, who deserved kindness and relief. He hasn’t asked Merlin about her. He is afraid of the answer, afraid of the life she led without him. He misses her. Desperately, he misses her. Merlin must always see that in his eyes. 

“Arthur,” Merlin says again. 

_Just another part of my charm,_ Merlin had told him, thousands of years ago. He remembers that moment. He remembers realizing – thinking – that such a smile would be the last one he’d ever see from Merlin. The last time he’d ever see him smile. 

“Arthur,” Merlin says again, almost scolding now, and smiling at him. There is worry in his eyes – always worry, always looking out for him, always afraid of what Arthur will not say. 

Arthur closes his eyes. “I’m hungry. Make me food.” 

Merlin sighs out, stands up, and trips on the shoe he left on the floor earlier. Arthur reaches out and catches him. 

 

-

 

Time passes. 

Merlin is careless. His magic hangs proudly in his veins and he teases Arthur with every twist of his wrist around a sword, with every step he takes back into this world that still burns as foreign to him as the world past this veil. Merlin must sense it, must sense the way Arthur falters through the world. He does not ask him, does not press him. But he must understand. He can see it in the shape of his brow. 

They bump into each other, they hit against each other so haphazardly – still trying to reconnect one’s lives together. Still trying to find space for the two of them in a world that’s separated them for so many years. Trying to find the ways to piece themselves back to each other’s sides. Arthur has the bruises to prove it. Merlin would, too, if he still bruised. 

Merlin is knowledgeable. Far more so than Arthur could have ever imagined. Whatever question Arthur has, Merlin answers. Easily. Fluidly. His magic is a point of showmanship. He delights in letting the knives hang in the air as he prepares meals, lets the vegetables float up to meet their fates. Commands the soap bubbles to whisk across the dishes. He is delighted, he is smiles, he is free and open and laughing. 

_I don’t want you to change,_ he’d told Merlin once. 

Arthur is an anchor upon the ground, watching the magic float away above his head, Merlin almost floating with them, his steps light and his hands swift and practiced, graceful. He laughs whenever he catches Arthur making a face he finds amusing.

He still walks into the doorjambs, though. He still forgets the top step of the flagstones outside the cottage they stay in. Arthur always, must always, grasp his elbow and tether him back down again. Drag him back in. Arthur bristles, snaps. Merlin laughs. 

They go to battle and Merlin protects him. His hands do not shy away from the blood. Eventually, Arthur does not shy away from the magic. Closes his eyes to Merlin’s touch, feels the feather-hot flames just beneath the surface of his skin – Merlin branding him as he cups his cheeks and whispers out his names. Kisses him as Arthur kisses him back. 

He tucks his uncertainty deep into his heart and melts into him. Feels warm all over. 

 

-

 

The world washes over Arthur in a distant hum, uncertain and aimless. Most nights when Arthur does not sleep, Merlin looks at him and is tired and worried. Arthur turns into him, wants to spill his words out into him like water into the lake – his fear, his regret. He cannot guess how much Merlin must guess – there is no man in all this world, at any time, who knew him and knows him as Merlin does. He does not know if Merlin has guessed or if he is waiting. 

Arthur always turns away in the end, ashamed. Merlin’s hands always come out, wrap around him, shock him into stillness. 

“I don’t feel like myself anymore. I don’t feel human,” Arthur admits, one day, because the words weight down hard in the core of his throat, wrapped up and unacknowledged, slowly choking him. 

Merlin pushes him to the wall, body pressed full to him, arms around his neck and crushing into him. He is unsteady and then he stills, eager and gentle. 

“Feel this,” Merlin says, pleads, his eyes wild and fierce and heartbroken. 

Here is Merlin’s grace. Here is his elegance – he is desperate and deliberate, each hand placing upon Arthur’s chest, his neck, his cheek. He is gentle and warm, and Arthur does not resist, can only kiss back, can only feel himself scalding beneath Merlin’s attentions, his hands warm against his face as he cups his cheeks so sweetly. 

After, Arthur buries his head into his shoulder, overwhelmed, but refuses to hide. He holds Merlin close, refuses to let go. He can’t sleep.

Merlin says, his voice hitching up with the pain of centuries, “Of course you feel different now. You were dead.” 

The words lodge in Arthur’s throat.

Merlin, tired and mending himself back together, says, “No one can stay the same after that.” 

 

-

 

The words stay playing against the back of Arthur’s mind, for far too long. He curls into himself, ducks his head, shoulders hitching.

Merlin touches his face, each time, looks at him and says, “You are the same in all ways that matter.” 

In these moments, Arthur is quiet, hair loose around his face. He does not move. He tries to say something, but the words are clumsy and too loud in the silence, and he keeps quiet instead. Merlin might joke about that, about the strange silence, and Arthur can count on one hand the number of days it’s been since he last saw Merlin smile. His heart feels over-loud in the quiet. He is too used to the quiet, too used to being alone, and silent, and drifting between two spaces of living and dead, that strangest mists in Avalon. 

“I tried, too,” Merlin admits. “You told me – you wanted me to always be myself.”

Arthur is quiet, because he can remember that, he can remember that feeling – alone in the dark woods, leaning into Merlin’s touch, processing the pursuit of peace and magic, the man before him that he thought he knew and never truly knew until that moment. He died knowing him fully. 

He blinks. There are tears in his eyes. He breathes out as Merlin continues, “I tried.” 

“You’re you,” Arthur repeats, “in all the ways that matter.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can reach me at my [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/) for whatever reason!


End file.
